


For Your Open Arms

by Taste_is_Sweet



Series: Soldiers of Fire and Shadows [24]
Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Because it's me, Christine Palmer is a Gift, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, He Gets a Hug, Hurt Illya, Illya Kuryakin Has Issues, Illya Kuryakin Needs a Hug, Love, and a kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 09:31:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17701829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taste_is_Sweet/pseuds/Taste_is_Sweet
Summary: "Oh, my God," Christine says. She smacks a hand over her mouth. "You're…you're avigilante,aren't you? Oh myGod,she repeats when her only response is stony silence. "I'm right! You're a vigilante! You got yourself beat upvigilanteing!""That is not word," Illya says.





	For Your Open Arms

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the song [Love is Endless by Mozella](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SZNVEOd974Q). The song is simple, catchy af and super sweet, even if I can't think of the singer's name as anything but a mashup of Godzilla and mozzarella cheese. I'm sorry.
> 
> * * *
> 
> I owe endless loving thanks (see what I did there?) to [Squeaky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squeaky/pseuds/Squeaky). Not just for introducing me to the above-mentioned song, but for explaining how it could be plausible for Christine to help Illya. I did not, however, ask her about the actual medical stuff. Any errors are therefore entirely my own.
> 
> * * *
> 
> I am agog with how there are now _two entire fics_ in this series that aren't just unremitting angst. Go, me!

Illya Kuryakin is in the waiting room of Metro-General's Emergency Department when Christine Palmer gets off shift.

It's 10:15 PM, and Christine's been on her feet and moving for more than sixteen hours. She's fairly sure that's why she stands there in her coat, blinking like a stunned owl for probably much too long before registering that he's A) definitely not a hallucination and, B) obviously in pain. He's hiding it, of course, because he's one of Claire's Special Needs Particular Idiots. He'd probably be at Claire's clinic if his arm wasn't broken, but Christine's been an ER surgeon long enough to know a break when she sees one. Obviously Illya knows one when he feels it, too. Which is sad, when she thinks about it.

Considering he picked her up with his knuckles busted and didn't so much as twitch, the fact that she can tell he's hurt at all isn't reassuring.

That's not the only injury, either: he has a wide puddle of dark green bruising that's puffed out the lid of his eye and spread like a stain to his ear, and down the side of his face to his neck.

It's barely been six days since she last saw him. What the hell could he have done to himself in less than a week?

If she's being honest, Christine wasn't expecting to see Illya again. Not that she didn't _want_ to, because she did. Does. It's just, well, she's not like Claire. Claire's the fearless superhero wrangler; Christine's just a regular ER surgeon who startles easily. She didn’t think there'd be a reason to see Illya again.

She certainly wasn't expecting to see Illya at Metro-General, let alone injured. And she really needs to stop staring and actually do something about it.

She takes a breath and walks to where he is, sitting unassumingly in the row of uncomfortable plastic chairs against the farthest wall from the admitting desk. She shouldn't, technically, be taking random patients out of the waiting room without at least letting the admitting staff know—that's distressingly similar to what got Claire fired—but that's never stopped her before. Christine doesn't like breaking rules, but Metro-General is a wealthy enough hospital to afford her occasionally making sure everyone gets the help they need, whether or not they can pay for it.

Also, it's something Stephen sneers at, so maybe Christine does it to spite him.

She has no idea if Illya has health insurance, but he literally cuddled her for warmth a few nights ago; It's the least she can do to make sure he's not in pain for the next God knows how many hours. And she'll save the staff on shift some time and effort. No harm, no foul. And she did want to see him again.

"We've got to stop meeting like this," she says when she's near enough for him to hear her.

She makes her voice as warm as humanly possible, but Illya startles anyway, surprisingly badly for someone with exceptional hearing. Christine startles badly in reaction, and then they're staring at each other wide-eyed, Christine with her hands clapped over her mouth.

Illya hisses in pain from his sharp movement, holding his arm that much more tightly and going still. All the same, when he says, "Christine! It is good to see you," like this was a pleasant surprise as opposed to mutual mild heart attacks, his voice is full of the kind of warmth she'd like to wrap herself in. His smile is as pained as the rest of him, but big and genuine, and more than enough to remind her of exactly how handsome he is.

"It's good to see you too," she says, hoping he'll think the sudden heat in her face is because of her coat. "What are you doing here? Are you all right?"

The answer to that is obvious, but he just shrugs with the arm he's not cradling to his chest. "I'm fine. It is most likely greenstick fracture of Radius, and simple fracture of Ulna. Transverse," he adds casually, as if everyone knows that sort of thing.

Christine wonders if he's aware most people don't. She also wishes she herself wasn't so painfully aware of where that particular knowledge of his comes from, or that it was all via miserable personal experience. "I was thinking that too," she says, because she's sure telling him he really doesn't look fine will go over like a lead balloon. "Will you let me give you a quick assessment? You'll probably need an X-Ray, but I'd like to get a better idea of what we're dealing with."

He frowns, eying her coat. "You are off shift."

She smiles at him, charmed by his concern. "I don't mind taking a few more minutes to help a friend."

Illya blinks, like he never imagined she'd use that word in reference to him. "If you are sure," he says uncertainly, then looks around. "But the nurse—"

"Don't worry about it," Christine says. "I do this all the time."

"Steal patients from waiting room?" He says it so blandly that it takes Christine a moment to realize he's teasing her. 

"Yes, actually," she says, trying to ignore the new rush of heat to her face. "Now come on so I can check you out before I die of the heat. Medicinally!" she adds helplessly when Illya blinks again, then gives a low, pleased chuckle. "Check you out medicinally! Just your arm! Nothing else!"

"I think risk is greater if you do check me out. Medicinally," Illya says very seriously as he stands up, being careful of his arm. The only signs he's enjoying flustering her are the spark in his eyes and faint curve to his lips. "Maybe I should wait for triage nurse. Keep you safe from hotness."

"Your arm's just body temperature," Christine says, because it's the first thing she can think of.

Illya grins. "True. But, Super Soldiers are hot."

"Oh my _God._ " Christine smacks her hand over her face. "Never mind. I'm going to leave you here."

"Yes. Much safer," Illya says.

* * *

Christine manages to keep her shit professionally together during the assessment, because a patient is a patient, regardless of how attractive or how well she knows them. Illya's worst injury is definitely the likely break to his forearm, but now that she's examining him, she's pretty sure his cheekbone is at minimum cracked as well. There are also an unsettling number of bruises peppering his torso.

"Someone got in a lucky hit," she murmurs, gently palpitating his swollen cheek. So far Illya's scored normal on her unofficial Glasgow Coma Scale test, reciting his name, date and location, focusing with no trouble and following all her instructions. It's a relief, but she's already mentally added an MRI to the X-Ray, just in case.

"Just one," Illya responds darkly. He's lying more-or less comfortably on the exam table, his broken arm at his side, propped up on a pillow. His mouth twitching is the only sign he's not enjoying her touching him. At least he didn't report any numbness or vision issues to go with the injury. "He was not so lucky afterwards."

Of that, Christine is certain. "What happened? And how long ago was it?" It can take days for deep bruises to reach the skin's surface, and Illya's looks days old already. She dearly hopes that's his healing ability, and not that he's been wandering around with a broken arm or cracked skull for the better part of a week.

"Face, three days ago. Baseball bat," he explains blandly.

She blinks at him, hands frozen over the largest bruise on his ribs. "You were hit in the face with a _baseball bat?_ "

Illya shrugs a little, then winces. "Like I said, lucky shot." He takes in the way she's continuing to stare at him, and sighs. "I was on way home from work," he says, like he's giving in at an interrogation. "There were four men, mugging someone. I stopped them."

"That was very brave of you," Christine says. She would've called 911 from a safe distance. She tries to imagine what Stephen would do in that situation, then decides he'd either help the victim afterwards while admonishing them about being careless, or try to stop the fray with the sheer force of his arrogance. And then wonder why he got shot.

"You're lucky you didn't get shot," she says. 

Illya shrugs again, but this time only with his good arm. "Was not lucky, was good."

"Except for the baseball bat to your head." 

He rolls his eyes. "Lucky baseball bat to head. I took down first two, last got in hit when I had turned to third." He mimes it as best he's able with one working arm.

Christine grimaces. It's impossible not to imagine him in a heap while two men go to town on him. "Why didn't you call 911?"

"Muggers would be gone by the time cops arrived," he says like it's obvious. "Victim would be hurt or dead."

"So instead it was just you who was hurt, and who could've been dead." She has a sudden deep, heartfelt sympathy for Claire. "Did you use your arm to block the bat?" She lifts her arm in front of her face to demonstrate.

Illya shakes his head. "That was not bat. That was truck."

" _What?_ " Christine gapes at him. "The muggers ran you over with a truck?"

"Drug dealers, not muggers," he says, as if that explains anything.

"Drug dealers ran you over with a truck?" Christine says, still gaping. "When? What were you even doing in a place where drug dealers could run you over with a truck?"

"Stopping them," Illya says flatly. "This evening, on way home from work. Decided to intervene."

"On your way home form work," Christine repeats, staring at him, "You ran into muggers three days ago—who broke your _face_ —and then last night it was drug dealers? Both on your way home from work?"

Illya's jaw sets. "I live in bad neighborhood."

"Maybe you should move." Christine steps back and crosses her arms. "Illya, what's going on?"

"Nothing," Illya says mulishly, but then turns his head away, marking the obvious lie. "I saw bad people doing bad things. I stopped it. Someone has to."

It's the _someone has to_ that snaps everything into stark, terrible place. Christine looks Illya over again, this time not just taking in his injuries, but his clothes. He's shirtless now, but he was wearing a plain black turtleneck, under a dark brown leather bomber jacket that looked far more functional than decorative. And he still has on black cargo pants that she's sure came from a military surplus store. They're tucked into heavy, black steel-toed boots.

"Oh, my God," Christine says. She smacks a hand over her mouth. "You're…you're a _vigilante,_ aren't you? Oh my _God,_ she repeats when her only response is stony silence. "I'm right! You're a vigilante! You got yourself beat up _vigilanteing!_ "

"That is not word," Illya says.

"I don't care!" Christine snaps. She puts her hands to her head. "I can't believe this! You're a vigilante. You're a fucking vigilante. No wonder you didn't go to Claire! I thought it was because she doesn't have casting material, but it's because you didn't want her to know, did you? Because you knew she'd freak out!"

"Somewhat like you," he says tiredly.

"Shut up. I have every right to freak out!" Christine retorts. "Why are you doing this? Don't you know how dangerous it is? You just got your brother back!" She goes closer, lowering her voice even though she knows how hard it is to hear what's going on in the examination rooms. "What would Bucky think if he knew you were taking on…taking on _drug dealers_ in _trucks_ on your own?"

"He would think it was good," Illya says decisively. He sits up, lips twitching in discomfort. "Matvey is hurt, because I left him. Someone needs to replace Daredevil, keep his city safe for him until he is ready to come back."

The look on Illya's damaged face: sorrow, remorse and guilt, thick like it's own kind of injury, derails Christine's rant entirely. "Oh, Illya." She hugs him as best she can while avoiding his broken arm, likely broken face and all the other injuries. "Matt chose to stay behind, so you could save Bucky. What happened to him isn't your fault."

He doesn't hug her back, but she knows it's nothing to do with her. "Yes, it is my fault," he says with soft, implacable certainty. "What happened to Bucky was because of me, so what happened to Matt when we rescued Bucky is my fault also. Even if that were not true, Captain America and Iron Man did not find Matvey in time, because of bad information. My bad information."

Christine lets go of him and straightens, sticking her hands in her jeans pockets. Her coat is on top of his jacket on one of the chairs. "I know I wasn't there when they brought Matt and the boy back, but from what Claire said, it sounded like even Tony's super computer had a hard time finding them."

"J.A.R.V.I.S. does not know what I know," Illya says. "I should have thought about Grant. Should have remembered last brother."

"Considering what Hydra did to you, it's amazing you remember anything at all," Christine says gently. "It's true!" she adds when Illya scowls. "I read that awful _Time_ magazine. I know what they did to your heads. The fact that you have almost all your memories is nothing short of miraculous."

Illya's scowl deepens. "What they did to Bucky was worse."

"I know. But Bucky's more resilient than you, isn't he?"

Illya's scowl relaxes back into guilt. He nods miserably. "And I am more resilient than Matya."

She hadn't meant to bring him full-circle like that. Christine wants to hug him again. She puts her hand on his good shoulder instead. Her hands aren't too cold for once, but his skin still feels astonishingly warm. "Matt is going to recover, Illya. I promise."

Illya looks away again. "You do not know that. Nobody knows that. And if he does not recover, someone needs to look after his city. I can, so I will."

"It doesn't have to be you," Christine tries. "You don't have to be alone. What about the Avengers?"

"Avengers look after whole world," Illya says to the far wall. "They have no time for normal problems of city."

"That doesn't mean they wouldn't want to help," Christine says quietly. "You said Bucky would approve of what you're doing." She doubts that, but whatever. "What if you asked him for help?"

Illya frowns. "My brother has just healed from illness and burns. I will not ask him for help."

"He might be upset that you didn't, when he sees those injuries," Christine says.

"He will understand," Illya says, which could be true, be a flat-out lie, or a product of wishful thinking. "Is least I can do, anyway."

"Least you can do?" Christine blinks at him. "Least you can do for what?"

"Penance," Illya says simply. Then, while she's still staring at him, "I'm cold. Can I get scans please? I would like to go home."

She opens her mouth to launch into a litany about how he doesn't owe penance to anyone, but closes it and nods instead. He is in pain, and while she sincerely doubts he's cold, it's not comfortable sitting on an exam table half naked. "Of course," she says. The MRI will want him without a shirt, so she helps him into a hospital gown and leads him to the radiologic technician.

* * *

Illya does, indeed, have a simple fracture of his zygomatic arch, with no displacement or nerve damage. Because of his thick skull, she's sure. The break is also nearly half-healed, despite it only being three days old. His broken arm bones are exactly what he told her, too. Which is still sad.

Christine waits until he's back in the exam room, dressed again and fastening the arm brace—the only thing he agreed use—before she decides to bring up Bucky again.

"You know," she says casually, needlessly adjusting the strap over his thumb, "I really think you should least talk to Bucky about this. This penance you're doing, I mean." She looks up, unsurprised to meet his glower. "I don't think he'd want this from you," she adds softly.

Illya shrugs, then pulls his arm back. She lets it go. He stands and goes to where his jacket is still folded on the chair. She didn't even bother offering painkillers again, but he already looks better just for having the bones immobilized. And apparently he won't need anything at all in about a couple weeks.

"I am reason he nearly died," Illya says. He picks up his jacket but just stands there with his back to her, holding it in his hands. "I told you, remember? He escaped. He came to find me. He tried to _save me._ But I knocked him out, told Hydra where he was. Gave him back." Illya turns around, earnestly clutching his jacket. "Bucky _escaped,_ " he says again, like the repetition will convince her of how evil he is. "He was _free,_ and I _gave him back to them._ I betrayed him worse than any spy. Worse than Hydra betrayed him. I swore I would not let my brothers be hurt again. But I left Matvey behind and now he is hurt because of me too."

"Matt made his choice, Illya," Christine says again. She sits on the exam table, feeling every second of the last God only knows how many hours. "It's not fair for you to take responsibility for what happened because of it. If you hadn't run with Bucky when you did, Hydra would've gotten all three of you, Right? Right, Illya?" she says, until she finally gets a reluctant nod in answer. "Taking Bucky and getting the hell out of there was the only thing you could do. Matt knew it, that's why he chose to stay behind. And…and you standing there feeling guilty about it takes that away from him," she adds, a little startled with the realization. "That's not fair."

"His being in coma is not fair!" Illya snaps at her.

"Then blame Hydra! Not you!" Christine snaps back at him. "None of you would be here if it wasn't for them! It's all their fault!"

"What I did to Bucky is mine! My fault!" Illya shouts. He squeezes his jacket so hard she's concerned he'll damage the leather.

"No it's not!" she shouts too. "And keep your voice down!" she goes on more quietly. "It's not your fault. Because you would never have given him back to Hydra if you hadn't already been their prisoner too, right?"

Illya's jaw twitches on his unbruised side. "He said they took our memories," he grits out. "I should have know was true."

"How?" Christine asks, genuinely perplexed. "How could you know they took your memories if you couldn't remember them taking your memories?" 

It's almost funny, watching him try to figure out how to respond to that. "Should have trusted him," he says at last. "But he was…" Illya winces. "Erratic. Not…himself. Not man I knew. He seemed sick. Thought he was sick. Thought Hydra would…" He closes his eyes, swallows like he's practically gagging on the word. " _Help_ him. But was not true. Should have trusted him."

"Illya." She gets off the table and goes to him, taking his wrists in her hands. She's careful with the brace, but his good wrist is like holding a corded steel beam. "Claire's my best friend. I trust her with my life. But if she came to me looking sick, acting weird and babbling about having her memories stolen, I'd check her for fever and then haul her to the ER." She waits a beat for Illya's unhappy acknowledgement. "What about that situation could have possibly made you think you could trust what Bucky was saying? You were being a good brother, Illya," she goes on when it's obvious he's not going to answer again. "You thought he was sick and you helped him the only way you knew how."

They're the same words Claire used at the clinic, and for a moment Christine's worried that Illya will react the same way he did then: by marching off to take on the nearest remaining Hydra base by himself. She reflexively grips his unhurt wrist a little harder, but he doesn't try to leave.

He swallows, then sniffs, then tries to turn away from her again, but she ducks into the loop of his arms and hugs him before he can. He's trembling again; she can feel it in his hands when he hugs her back. His body is tense as iron, but he's incredibly gentle despite his strength. She's been hugged more tightly by children.

Illya isn't crying this time, but Christine can hear him choking it back and wishes he would. She can only imagine the decades' worth of anguish still weighting his heart. An ocean of tears might not be enough to even acknowledge it. "You're a good man, Illya," she says. "You're a good brother. You did the best you could," she tells him, because it's achingly obvious he doesn't think so. Maybe if he hears it enough he'll believe it. Maybe. 

She can feel him shaking his head, but he holds her a little more tightly, as if in both apology and thanks. Then he takes a deep breath that only shudders a little bit, and kisses her cheek before he lets go.

"Oh," she says, blinking. She hadn't expected that. She definitely, absolutely doesn't mind, but she really didn't expect it. She puts her fingers to her cheek automatically, feeling the blood heat her skin.

"Sorry," Illya says. His eyes are red-rimmed but dry. "I just…." He trails off helplessly, looking guilty. "I'm sorry," he says again. "I should not have done that."

Christine steps closer until their feet are touching, staring up at his wary expression. Then she lifts onto her tiptoes and kisses him on the corner of the mouth. "There," she says afterwards, gravely and a tad breathlessly. "Now we're even."

"Oh." Somehow his one-syllable, wide-eyed response sounds much more significant than hers. His mouth curves into a small, hopeful smile, and then he cups the back of her head in his huge, warm hand. He pauses long enough to make sure she wants it too, then kisses her for real.

He's not nearly as suave or practiced as Stephen, but his kiss feels more genuine because of it. Stephen could make her knees weak with surgical precision, but sometimes Christine felt far more like a patient he was working on than a person he wanted to be with. 

Illya kisses her like she's exactly the one he wants to be with, and when she opens her mouth to him he takes the invitation as sweetly and carefully as when he kept her warm. She takes his head in her hands, partially just to hang on—she's more than a foot shorter than he is—and mostly to make sure he doesn't pull away.

He compensates by lifting her effortlessly and sitting her on the exam table so they can keep kissing without straining their necks. She's not sure how she feels about being carted around, but something about the ease with which he does it is surprisingly hot. 

They're both a tad breathless when she finally releases him. Her heart is pounding, but with exhilaration rather than nerves. Illya immediately takes her hands.

"I, um, don't normally do that," she says. She's still looking up at him. Her smile is probably goofy as hell and she really doesn't care.

"Neither do I," he says, much more seriously. There's worry creeping back into his lovely blue eyes.

Christine leans forward and kisses him again, a chaste press of her closed lips. "I don't normally do that," she repeats, "unless I want to."

"Oh," he says again, then grins, stroking the backs of her hands with his thumbs. "Was afraid it was just me."

She rolls her eyes, though she doesn't bother trying to suppress the smile pulling at her lips. "It wasn't just you. But if we're going to continue this, I can't treat you anymore." She schools her expression to something grave. "Which means you can't keep getting yourself injured. Because not all of the other ER doctors are as good as I am."

He snorts, still grinning. "There are other hospitals. I can go to Claire, or Avengers Tower."

Now she's wondering if he avoided the tower for the same reason he didn't go to Claire, but there's no point in mentioning it. "What if I just don't want you to be hurt anymore?" she asks. "You don't need to do penance, Illya. You don't need to put yourself in these situations."

His grin falters and dies. "Please, do not ask me to stop. I need to do this."

She doesn't tell him that the 'need' is entirely in his head; she's definitely not naïve enough to think she could possibly change him. But. "Can I ask you to be more careful, then? Not just for me. For your brothers, too. And Claire, because I know you're friends. And yourself. Can you please be more careful for yourself? For all of us?"

It's probably too much to ask, but he nods, even if his eyes flick away. "I will try."

"Thank you." Hopefully his trying will be enough. She still wants him to talk to Bucky, but she's pushed enough for one night. And this thing between them is brand new: as fragile as exhilarating. There will be time to help him forgive himself. Right now she just wants to enjoy his company.

She kisses him again, because she really wants that too, then slides off the exam table, still holding his hands. "Since you're all taken care of, can you walk me home?"

"Of course." He smiles again, endearingly unsure, and it warms her heart in a way poor Stephen never could. "Can I stay?"

"Of course," she says, and lets him help her put on her coat.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> I love this completely impossible pairing. I also love all of you guys endlessly (I did it again!) for sticking with me this far and reading it! You are the best. ♥
> 
> * * *
> 
> [My Tumblr is probably 88% pictures of Sebastian Stan, and 12% wailing about Avengers: End Game.](http://taste-is-sweet.tumblr.com/)


End file.
